


Winter Wine

by redwinehouse



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Banter, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, book!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwinehouse/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: It was Christmas Eve. A demon and an angel sat on a bench in St. James Park, watching the snow as it fell in sleepy flakes, orange and bright under the lamplight. Every so often they took a sip from an expensive bottle of wine. They had been doing so for the past ten minutes until the demon said, “Well, happy Christmas.”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	Winter Wine

**Author's Note:**

> This is all book universe and characterization! I miss them and have wanted to read the more soft/anxious Crowley we know, so I wrote it. Enjoy.

It was Christmas Eve. A demon and an angel sat on a bench in St. James Park, watching the snow as it fell in sleepy flakes, orange and bright under the lamplight. Every so often they took a sip from an expensive bottle of wine. They had been doing so for the past ten minutes until the demon said, “Well, happy Christmas.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Happy Christmas.” 

“You want to do something or—?” 

“I thought we were doing something.”

“Right.” Crowley put the wine bottle to his lips and leaned back. 

“You know, I met Sinterklaas.”

“St. Nicholas?” Crowley offered him the bottle.

Aziraphale shook his head, accepting the wine. “No, no. His Dutch counterpart. The one that kidnapped and whipped children.”

“He _whipped_ children?”

“Only if they were bad.”

Crowley sputtered. Rivulets of deep purple dribbled from his chin. “Ngk. He goes about beating children and this is okay by you?”

Aziraphale, for his part, looked flustered. “He doesn’t do it anymore, does he? I told him to stop. Children don’t learn through violence.”

“So you invented Father Christmas?”

Behind his glasses, Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “You know, I never really thought of it like that.”

“That makes you, what, Grandfather Christmas?”

They sat in a poignant silence, rethinking their six thousand years of existence.

“I don’t think I can handle that kind of responsibility,” Aziraphale said. He was breathing hard.

“I mean,” Crowley began slowly, “it’s not like you’re any different than you were before. Christmas has gotten on just fine without you.”

Aziraphale stared up at him. Then he smiled. “Yes. I suppose it has.” He did a little wiggle. “I feel much better. Thank you for being so kind.”

Crowley eyed down the neck of the bottle. “Don’t say that too loud, angel. People will get the wrong idea.”

They tossed the empty bottle in the bin and got up. The Bently was parked just outside the park, not a single snowflake brave enough to stick to its hood.

“I think I’ll walk home,” Aziraphale said as Crowley waved his hand over the door handle. “It’s such a beautiful night.”

“Suit yourself. Happy Christmas,” Crowley said again.

“Happy Christmas.”

It wasn’t until Aziraphale turned the corner that Crowley got inside, pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, and sighed.

The Bently shot into fifth gear as it peeled away from the curb. 

“Bless it!” Crowley spat, a sneer cutting across his face. 

_Don’t say that too loud angel, people will get the wrong idea._

He could have said ‘thank you.’ Acknowledgement wasn’t affirmation, was it? Was it possible Aziraphale hadn’t really meant he was kind? Maybe he was just being appreciative. He still should have said ‘thank you.’ Aziraphale thought he was kind—

Crowley made it to Mayfair in under two minutes. 

The door to his flat slammed behind him, the lock clicking shut. He had a Shiraz stashed away for when he needed to get rightly pissed. Crowley grabbed the bottle and a glass because if he was going to spiral, he was at least going to be classy. He strode into the atrium, pouring the wine in a graceful arch. 

“You,” he growled, snatching a poinsettia. He dangled it in front of its friends. “I have some _things_ to say to you.” Crowley’s body sagged and he pressed his back against the wall. “You would not believe the night I’ve had.” He slid to the floor and tucked the pot against his side. 

The poinsettia deflated in relief.

“Aziraphale said I was nice - kind, sorry. And I told him to keep it down. Can you believe that?” 

The flower said nothing.

“What am I supposed to say? I’m a demon for Satan’s sake!” Crowley took a sip of his wine, eyeing the flower. Which again, said nothing. “Good point.”Crowley found the flower to be a very good listener. “I’m sure he’s forgotten it by now.”

The flat’s buzzer cut through the sad affair. Crowley, who didn’t have a buzzer, swallowed. “Best get this over with,” he said to the plant. He propped the pot on his hip, wine glass still dripping from his fingers as he sauntered towards the front door. He opened it with a jerk of his head.

Aziraphale must have walked from the bookshop because there was still snow in his hair and on his jumper. “Crowley,” he said, looking wretched. Then he noticed the poinsettia. “What is that?”

“Er, it’s, er-” Crowley floundered before shoving the plant into Aziraphale’s chest. “It’s for you.”

“For me?”

Crowley drained his wine glass. “Yup.”

“But I didn’t get anything for you!” 

“Don’t worry about it.”

Aziraphale admired the scarlet blossoms. “How thoughtful. Thank you, Crowley.”

A strangled sound tried to claw its way out of Crowley’s throat. Instead, he said, “I have more wine.”

“Lovely.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a soft smile.

They sat on the white sofa, watching the snowfall. 

“I feel like I left you in a bad spot,” said the angel.

“What do you mean?”

“It seemed like you were out of sorts when I left and you weren’t answering your telephone.”

“You know how I get around Christmas.”

“Hearing _Santa Baby_ isn’t a reason to ignore the telephone.”

“He’s thousands of years old!” Crowley protested.

“No,” Aziraphale explained, “it’s the husband dressed up as Father Christmas.”

“ _No!_ ”

“Yes, my dear.”

It had started to snow harder. Snowflakes stuck to the window in wet spatters.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked.

“Not used to being one of the good ones, I suppose,” Crowley said.” I fell, shouldn’t that make me a bastard? How is that fair?” Crowley decided that he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to have this conversation. He went to grab the wine bottle and Aziraphale’s hand found his.

“No one ever said you weren’t a bastard.” 

Crowley let out something between a laugh and a sob. “You know I’m hopelessly in love with you, eh?”

“Of course, my dear.” 

“It’s been worrying me for six thousand years.” Crowley took a long swig from the bottle, spitting it back up when the angel placed a kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale said. “I knew you were different the day I met you.”

“So it’s possible for me to do good?” Crowley prodded.

A tender expression had crept across Aziraphale’s face. “More than anyone, I’d say.”

Crowley kissed him, their glasses sliding up the bridge of their noses. 

Aziraphale pushed him away. “Wipe your mouth, dear.”

“Ngk. Sorry.”


End file.
